skip to main |
skip to sidebar
To conclude...It has been a long evening and it is time to part company. Opening her car door, our Boss pauses."You know," she says. "You should take photos of the damage to show the police tomorrow.""What a great idea!" I respond, "What a shame that our camera was stolen as well. Perhaps I could draw a reasonable facsimile."
Duly chastised, she suggests,"Do you want me to send a guard over from work? Would you feel safer?"
"Honestly, no. I suspect that this is the safest house in Iraq right now. Besides, there's nothing left to steal."
Back in the House in Complete Disarray, Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad) and I begin the labourious job of making things less topsy-turvy, all the while keeping a watchful eye on Celeste who is still acting like a bit of a stoner.
"Look - blood!" Mr. This Cat suddenly cries, holding aloft a rather jaggedy shard of bloodstained glass. "It's evidence! One of the thieves must have cut himself on it as he opened the door through the broken window. We need to give this to the Not-Very-Secret Secret Police that everyone knows, or the Really-Secret Secret Police that nobody knows (this is, after all, Iraq) tomorrow." I run to the kitchen and grab one of the few prized possessions not stolen by the thieves: a ziplock storage bag into which he carefully deposits the shard. "Chain of custody, you know ..."
"Yes, we need to ensure the integrity of evidence." I nod knowingly. It's not for nothing that we've spent the last 20 years religiously watching every episode of Law & Order. Time well spent!
Time passes. It is the morning, and we are at station of the Not-Very-Secret Secret Police that everyone knows. In total there are 5 of us: Mr. This Cat & I, Our Boss, Our Landlord, and a Kurdish Colleague of ours who speaks excellent English. Because of the flurry of phone calls made the night before by Our Boss' Well-Connected Friend in the Private Security Business, we are to see a director, or possible The Director - these nuances are seldom clear - first.
To the backdrop of Arab music videos whining at top volume on the television, Mr. This Cat is asked to tell A/The Director what happened; as I am a woman, I am not. Our Boss interjects. Our Landlord interrupts. In the 30 years we've lived in this neighbourhood, nothing like this has ever happened, safety, accountability, this is a crime, security, in the 30 years we've lived in this neighbourhood, nothing like this has ever happened, they're working for an American NGO, in the 30 years we've lived in this neighbourhood, nothing like this has ever happened punctuate the ululations of lovesick Lebanese chanteuses.
A/The Director turns to Mr. This Cat. "Do you know who did this?"
Jesus Mary & Joseph!
Mr. This Cat suddenly recalls the vital piece of evidence tucked safely away in his man-bag, and he triumphantly hands the ziplock baggie to A/The Director.
A/The director looks at at with unfeigned disinterest, opens a desk drawer and tosses it in, presumably for all of eternity.
"We do not have DNA labs here. We are not that advanced," he says. "This is not CSI."
Advanced enough to watch CSI, I think ....
From this (i.e., that we don't know who the guilty party is) we are made to understand that the interview is over. A/The Director has made good on whatever favour he owed someone by seeing us personally, and we are now to go to the Detectives to make a full report. And by we I mean Mr This Cat, for as I am a woman, my presence is completely unnecessary. I go anyway.
As we leave, he tells us that in the 20 years he's been A/The Director of the Not-Very-Secret Secret Police, nothing like this has ever happened.
Down a flight of stairs and through a courtyard we go, until we reach the cramped office of the Detectives of the Not-Very-Secret Secret Police. One of the detectives was at our House of Disarray the previous night, and I am momentarily tempted to ask him for my garden trowel back. We - by which I mean us and a host of unoccupied police staff - sit in big overstuffed armchairs which, like most of the furniture in Erbil's government offices, looks like it was either prised out of a '72 Chevrolet Impala or from a salon belonging to Louis XIV.
With the help of our Kurdish Colleague, we (by which I mean Mr. This Cat for as a woman, my presence is completely unnecessary) recount our story. The Lead Detective makes careful notes and then, once the report is completed, barks something at one of his unoccupied staff, and leaves. Before leaving he tells us that in the 10 years he's been a Not-Very-Secret Secret Police officer, nothing like this has ever happened.
The Junior Detective - identified as such by our Kurdish Colleague - takes the notes and then copies them by longhand onto sheets of paper separated by carbon paper.
"They still make carbon paper?" I whisper to Mr. This Cat. "And if he's making copies, why didn't the Lead Detective just use carbon from the beginning? Why have it copied out? And don't they have a photocopier? Couldn't they have just xeroxed it?"
My Journey through the Heart of Photocopying Darkness is interrupted by a rapid exchange between Junior and Our Kurdish Colleague, leaving both looking equally exasperated.
"He doesn't understand," our Kurdish Colleague nods his head towards Junior, "why you just won't tell the police who did this. I've tried to explain that you've just moved to the neighbourhood, but he wants to know who you are accusing specifically. He needs it for the report."
Yes, we are being frightfully wilful and uncooperative about this. We decide, to mollify Junior, to not so much accuse as to just mention the Iranian neighbours (his ears perk up at this because he knows, like all Kurds, that Iranians are nothing but thieves) and the clients of the Woman We All Believe to be a Whore who lives across the street.
Our police report - originals and I think one copy - are shuffled together, punched with holes, and secured with strands of bright red wool. The wool is looped through the holes and gathered together in a large bow. I am briefly reminded of every primary school project I have ever made and struggle to prevent a blood-curdling scream from passing my lips. Once he has finished, we are told that we must bring this Police Report With the Bright Red Woolly Bow to the Judiciary and be questioned by a judge there. The judge will make a decision as to whether our situation is indeed a case and worthy of a police investigation.
Is he serious? I cry.
Indeed he is.
We have now added a "courier" - a lackey whose sole job it is to smoke and carry our Police Report With the Bright Red Woolly Bow - to our motley group of pilgrims. We drive off to the Judiciary - what in fact looks like a private villa and, on closer inspection, proves to be a private villa, but one commandeered by the government. There are dozens of plaintiffs milling about, all holding files and reports (but none as pretty as ours), as well as a host of men with AK-47's, and a small boy whose day is comprised by running to the outside tap, filling a very large bucket with water, and running back inside to fill the waiting room's Swamp Thing.
Shouldn't he be in school? I ask.
We find a patch of unused wall and lean against it. We wait. And wait. Across from me is an old woman for whom the word old does her no justice. She is beyond ancient. As I wonder what crime has been perpetrated against her (besides the ravages of time), she heaves herself up from her chair and staggers towards me. I fear she is about to die and topple into my arms, but instead - harpy that she is - she screeches at me, wags her finger in my face and, with her other hand, points at my stomach. I feel like I am in an outtake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1978). I follow her pointing withered claw. Ahhhhh, it seems that the bottom of my t-shirt has ridden up slightly, exposing a good 2 centimetres of my midriff. I suspect the words infidel and whore were a part of her tirade.
"Old woman: you picked the wrong fucking day to give me grief over 2 centimetres of skin!" I snap at her (in my head). Instead, I smile politely and tuck in my shirt, and churlishly hope that she has been the victim of a home invasion.
Time passes. We are called into a judge's office which, without a doubt, possesses the largest and most efficient Swamp Thing in the whole of the Middle East. We are both required to stand before him while he peruses the information in our Police Report With the Bright Red Woolly Bow and assume the demeanour of supplicants. We are then asked a series of questions - and by we I mean Mr. This Cat for I am but a woman and have no business being there - during which he takes notes.
He asks Mr. This Cat who has robbed our home.
He scribbles some more and then we are made to understand that the interview is over. As we are leaving, he tells our Kurdish Colleague that he is taking this matter very seriously, and that he will recommend to the police that they arrest someone as soon as possible. If only we knew who did it ...
At least he has the good grace not to tell us that in the 40 years he's been a judge, nothing like this has ever happened.
These events transpired several weeks ago, and although the judge did in fact deem our situation a case and worthy of investigation, we have no clue what if anything was actually investigated. After a little time passed, our Kurdish Colleague phoned the police on our behalf and was told that there had been no arrests; however, should any thieves be caught red-handed in the near future, the police will, during the interrogation, ask the suspect in custody if he stole our goods as well. Excellent plan.
And there you have it - our very own Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time: a dog which probably did do something in the night-time and a theft - but no horse and no murder (although I confess to having murderous thoughts at the Judiciary.) At least in the Conan 
Doyle version, Holmes not only solved the murder but recovered Silver Blaze. Interestingly, the prized racehorse was found at the neighbours. Hmmmm ... maybe I should pay a little visit to the Iranians. You just never know what might turn up (eReader).
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time: Part the First
(with apologies to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)
"Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my attention?""To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time."
"The dog did nothing in the night-time."
"That was the curious incident," remarked This Cat's Abroad.
Yes, yes, yes, Sherlock Holmes may have beaten me to this quip by a hundred-some years, but, as God is my witness, those very words were coursing through my tiny febrile brain several weeks back when Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad) and I came home to a House in Complete Disarray.
So, several weeks back, Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad) and I came home to a House in Complete Disarray. It was 9:30 at night, and all of the lights were on in the house and the side door was open - not something we usually do since we earned our Home Safety Badges all those years ago when in Cubs and Brownies. Naturally, I assume that this is Mr. This Cat's' doing (Home Safety Badge notwithstanding) and as I pass through the brightly lit kitchen into the hallway leading upstairs, I make my displeasure clear to him under no uncertain terms. How could you forget to lock the side door? I gently chide him. Then my feet begin 
to crunch - or more accurately, something under my feet begins to crunch.
Glass, Mr. This Cat announces. There's glass everywhere!
We turn on the lights - for the downstairs hallway is the only room in the house to be in the dark (although admittedly, Mr. This Cat and I are in the dark as well, but that's more of a metaphor) - and find that the window next to the still open side door has been smashed. The lock of this door has no key (or at least, Our Landlord never gave us one) and was kept secure by means of a sliding bolt. Outside the door lies a garden trowel.
Celeste! I scream. Where's Celeste?
Celeste! Celeste! Celeste! Celeste! Celeste! Celeste! Celeste! Celeste! Celeste! Celeste! Celeste! Celeste! Celeste! Celeste! Celeste! Celeste! Celeste! Celeste!
We both race about the downstairs level calling her (see above quotation and repeat 12 times) and then I bolt upstairs to find the spare room with its door closed. Opening it, there lies Celeste freakishly calm and with a slight grin on her face. Beside her is a licked-clean container of Turkish labneh (cream cheese). She wags her tail and makes a tentative move out of the spare room.
After an all too brief moment of raucous rejoicing that our dairy-loving pet of three weeks is alive - if not behaving a tad stunned - I open our bedroom door to find a scene worthy of Insert Any American Cop Drama Here before me: the drawers (and their contents) from our wardrobe and nightstands are lying topsy-turvy on the floor, and all of our clothes have been pulled down from their hangars and are strewn about the floor ... to which I cry - are you ready for it?:
Oh my God, we've been robbed!
In no way do I suspect that Mr. This Cat has already figured that out.
Between screams and sobs, I started itemizing what is missing from the bedroom to Mr. This Cat, who is still downstairs sweeping up the shards of glass lest Celeste cut her paws. The iPod, my eReader - oh God, the camera ... the cash is missing ... the list goes on.
We call Our Boss, who seems to have the phone number of anyone who is anyone in Erbil on her Rolodex, and then call Our Landlord. She (the former) is outraged and hangs up to start making phone calls, and he (the latter) seems to think that our problem is a broken window and tells us to call him in the morning. Try as he might, Mr. This Cat is unable to convey the import of what has happened. Giving up, he calls Our Landlord's brother who not only lives a block away but possesses a higher level of English.
A few moments later, Our Landlord's Very Aged Father - who lives next door to us but speaks minimal English, so we usually ignore him - lets himself into our front yard. In tow with him are his Equally Aged Wife and their Grandchildren who are visiting them from Sweden. All six of them walk into our house without a word to us, and take in their surroundings as if they were strolling through a botanical garden or a zoo. The youngest child is carrying a box of popcorn. I'm always glad to provide a safe and enjoyable diversion for the locals. After the un-guided tour of our house, they leave - as silently as they had let themselves into our home arrived.
Our Boss arrives next and after stooping to pick up a piece of popcorn from the driveway (Popcorn? she asks. Apparently we're the in-flight entertainment, I respond), she surveys the house. Shaking her head in disbelief, she calls a well-connected friend in the Private Security Business (this is, after all, Iraq). While she is making her phone call, Our Landlord's Brother arrives.
In the 30 years we've lived in this neighbourhood, nothing like this has ever happened, he says.
Yeah, whatever.
My Very Aged Parents were out and they heard nothing.
That's convenient.
Our boss announces that the police are on their way.
The police are on their way, she announces.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, cries Our Landlord's Brother. There is no need.Insert a lengthy conversation between Our Boss and Our Landlord's Brother in which words and phrases like in the 30 years we've lived in this neighbourhood, nothing like this has ever happened, safety, accountability, this is a crime, security, in the 30 years we've lived in this neighbourhood, nothing like this has ever happened, they're working for an American NGO, in the 30 years we've lived in this neighbourhood, nothing like this has ever happened punctuate the night air.Celeste, in the meantime, has joined us all outside on the lawn, just as stunned as ever. She's been drugged, I say. There was an empty food container in the upstairs spare room where she was locked. They lured her with drugged food and locked her inside. They knew that we had a dog. They knew she loved dairy. They were prepared. They knew when we would be at work. Who breaks in between 7 and 9:00? They cased the house.
Maybe it was your friends, Our Landlord's Brother helpfully suggests. Your friends know the dog. Why else did your dog not bark?
This would explain the curious incident of the dog in the night-time, he adds quite unnecessarily like a puffed-up peacock.(Okay, I made up that bit but the implication was clear).How do you know that the dog didn't bark? I thought your Very Aged Parents were out for the night. Besides, our friends already have iPods and eReaders and such. Oh - and they're our friends.
The Secret Police arrive. They are a motley crew of undercover cops, for they are the Not-Very-Secret Secret Police that everyone knows, rather than the Really-Secret Secret Police that nobody knows (this is, after all, Iraq). They walk into our house without a word to us, and take in their surroundings as if they were strolling through a botanical garden or a zoo. Fortunately, none of them is carrying a box of popcorn.
Who did this? they ask.
Isn't that your job to find out? we respond. Or perhaps it was: we don't know. Either way the idea is the same.
They have the good grace to ask us what is missing, appear disturbingly disappointed at the quality of our list, take the garden trowel as evidence, and leave. They are in the house for a total of 5 minutes and, according to Mr. This Cat who showed them about, looked at and touched nothing.
In the meantime, Our Landlord's Brother has slipped off to make a phone call. Unbeknownst to us, he too has some well-connected friends, and (still unbeknownst to us) he calls one of them to make any further police investigation go away.
Time passes and the four of us - Mr. This Cat, Our Boss, still-stunned Celeste and I - sit on the front stoop with our metaphorical deerstalker hats on, trying to piece together what happened. That Celeste was drugged is a given. That the thieves were professionals is a given. But who did this? Our new Iranian neighbours? - ask any Kurd and they will tell you that all Iranians are thieves, as they've told us repeatedly. A client of the Woman We All Believe to be a Whore who lives across the street? The balconies of both of these homes have a direct line of vision into our front yard. It's easy to watch our comings and goings. Our habits are - well - habitual.Our boss decides to call her well-connected friend in the Private Security Business (this is, after all, Iraq) again. They speak briefly and she hangs up. He's making some calls, she tells us. He calls back a few moments later to tell her that a request has been made to bury the case, but - fear not! - he too has even more well-connected friends, and after a phone call or two, the case has been resurrected and reinstated.
For the love of God. Where's Franz Kafka when you need him?
We learn that we are to go to the police the next day to fill out a report. I have no idea if this will be with the Not-Very-Secret Secret Police that everyone knows, or the Really-Secret Secret Police that nobody knows (this is, after all, Iraq). Nor do I know if we will get our trowel back. Sitting on the front stoop, I can't help but notice that the garden needs to be weeded.
To be continued ...
Celeste (the Dog) has been popping up on this blog a fair bit recently, and although I don't begrudge her her 15 minutes of fame, she should probably be making better use of her time by acquainting herself with the plight of most dogs in Iraq. Or at least the dogs in Baghdad.
Yes, at the same time that she's been with us - some three months now - 58,000 stray dogs have been shot in the country's capital. And the shooting isn't over.
Now strays - along with members of various ethnic and political groups and people who parted their hair the wrong way - were routinely rounded up and summarily executed by Saddam Hussein under The Former Regime but, what with the US-led invasion 7 years ago and all that nasty sectarian violence of late, no one's been paying much attention to the dogs. Dogs who, by virtue of not being shot in the street, reproduced, and then reproduced some more so that now there are over a million strays roaming the city.
At least no one's been paying much attention to the dogs until now.
Residents claim that the dogs are attacking and killing children - which may or may not be true. Dogs get such a bad rap here that it's difficult to say what's what. Certainly, many children Celeste (the Dog) routinely encounters taunt her, only to elicit a toothy growl and lunge from her. Go Celeste! Recently, one of my students advised me that dogs by nature are child-killers, for he had just seen a documentary which proved it, but after a clever bit of prodding on my part, it turns out that the film was A Cry in the Dark - as in "the dingo ate my baby".
For the love of God.
Are strays a menace in Baghdad? - I have no doubt. But killing 58,000 in 90 days? Isn't that a tad draconian? Can't they be rounded up, inoculated, and neutered - and then released, never to have doggie sex again? Of course the response to this is that in the Grand Order of Things, providing a safe environment for Baghdadians is the government's one and only priority - although I would add that in a city where people have died protesting the expense and/or lack of electricity, the future looks dim.
I would also add that the funds to shoot the city's dogs only just became available - could that money not be used to neuter them instead? Yes, I know: bullets cost less than sutures and anaesthetic.
But it doesn't mean I have to like it.
By the way, because I am by nature an inordinately sensitive individual, I have elected not to post to this blog the photo which accompanied the original news article. You're welcome.
Spain: 1
The Netherlands: 0
Well, thank the gods that nonsense is finally over and that Spain won the World Cup (¡Podemos!). Life would've been awfully unbearable otherwise. No more offsides, no more yellow cards. No more cleats to the sternum overlooked by refs. No more lonely nights for me ...
Anyway, I've done my part and I just hope that I won't have to suffer the indignities of wearing bull horns for another 4 years! Maybe now - just maybe - someone can start paying a little attention to me. I know I'm not a prognosticating octopus (no hard feelings Paul) but I am a *very* pretty dog. And I don't live in a tank.
Hello. It's been a week of ups and downs, and because I can't help but feel that I am immensely more popular than the Human-Bitch who writes this blog, I thought I'd check in with you all. It's currently 48° and I have to tell you: border collies just weren't made for this weather. Where in the UK does it ever reach 48°? - Celsius or Fahrenheit? When I was living at Bomb-Sniffing School (certificate forthcoming), I had my own air-conditioned kennel (well yes, I did have a kennel mate, but still ...). And then last night, on top of everything esle, our Swamp Thing died. I mean, what else? Honestly, it's hotter than a bitch in heat here.
Secondly, I understand that the Human-Bitch and her mate are going on holiday soon. And contrary to what she blogged about recently, I don't think that I'm included in their plans. In fact, I took a peek at Her Mate's e-mail and I know for a fact that he contacted my Bomb-Sniffing School kennel to see if they had any vacancies. I´ll be surprised if they even come to get me when they get back. Tongues are going to wag over that juicy little tidbit if I get dumped there permanently. At least it's air-conditioned ...
The big news though - and although I know nothing about sports - is that tonight is the World Cup finals and Spain, I am told, is going to win the whole shebang. I don´t even know what a shebang is. In order to show my support for the team, I was decked out as a Spanish bull (see above photo) which although cute, is rather undignified for a dog considered to be THE Most intelligent breed in the whole wide world (including Iraq). I've never actually seen a football match mind you, because whenever there's been a game, the two of them just trotted down to the sports bar in town, leaving me behind - and then came back all tiddly at 12 in the morning with no regard at all for my feelings. Maybe I'd like to see a game too.
Nonetheless, this is Spain's first ever showing in the finals, and I did want to please the Human-Bitch and her mate, in spite of the fact that they won't be taking me to watch the game tonight, and they won't be taking me on holiday with them, and they probably won't be getting the Swamp Thing fixed anytime soon.
That's about it. I hope Spain wins tonight because I never get tired of watching the two of them crash around the house singing ¡Podemos, podemos ... sí, España! ("We can do it, yes we can - Spain!" ... it´s far far better on YouTube, by the way) at the top of their lungs, which they apparently did when Spain won the Euro Cup in 2008. Thank God for them that the national football team´s little chant only has three words.
xoxo
Celeste the Dog
p.s. Go Spain!
And the LORD spake unto Moses, and said unto him: "Now therefore, behold, the cry of the Children of Canada is come unto me: and I have also seen the oppression wherewith the Kurds oppress them. I shall bring them up out of that land unto a good and broad land for a wee holiday, unto a land flowing with ouzo and spanakopita; unto the place of the Greeks. Come now therefore, and I will send thee unto Pharaoh, that thou mayest bring forth my people the Children of Canada out of Kurdistan."
And Moses answered and said, "But, behold, they will not believe me, nor hearken unto my voice: for they will say, The LORD hath not appeared unto thee."
And the LORD said unto Moses, "Go in unto Pharaoh, for I have hardened his heart, and the heart of his servants, that I might show these my signs before him and that thou mayest tell in the ears of thy son, and of thy son's son, what things I have wrought in Kurdistan, and my signs which I have done among them; that ye may know how that I am the LORD."Moses did as the LORD commanded: "This is what the LORD says: '
Let This Cat and Mr. This Cat´s (Not Abroad) and Celeste the Dog go on holiday, so that they may worship me. If you do not let my people go, I will send swarms of mosquitoes on you and your officials, on your people and into your houses. The houses of the Kurds will be full of mosquitoes, and even the ground where they are.'"But the LORD hardened Pharaoh's heart, so that he would not let the Children of Canada go.
And Pharaoh said, "Who is the LORD, that I should obey his voice to let the Children of Canada? I know not the LORD, neither will I let This Cat, Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad) or Celeste the Dog go on holiday."
Then the LORD said to Moses, "Stretch out your hand toward the sky so that a stultifying heat as if from a fiery furnace will spread over Kurdistan—heat that can be breathed and felt and that withers all living things." So Moses stretched out his hand toward the sky, and a stultifying heat as if from a fiery furnace covered all of Kurdistan for seven weeks. No one could breathe or eat or function for seven weeks.But the LORD hardened Pharaoh's heart, so that he would not let the Children of Canada go.This is what the LORD, the God of the Canadians, says: "How long will you refuse to humble yourself before me? Let This Cat and Mr. This Cat´s (Not Abroad) and Celeste the Dog go on holiday, so that they may worship me. If you refuse to let them go, I will bring huge honking locusts into your country tomorrow. They will cover the face of the ground so that it cannot be seen. They will devour what little you have left after the hail, including every tree that is growing in your fields. They will fill your houses and those of all your officials and all the Kurds—something neither your fathers nor your forefathers have ever seen from the day they settled in this land till now."And the huge honking locusts came up over all the land of the Kurds, and rested in all the coasts of Kurdistan: very grievous were they; before them there were no such huge honking locusts they, neither after them shall be such. But the LORD hardened Pharaoh's heart, so that he would not let the Children of Canada go.This is what the LORD says: "Let This Cat and Mr. This Cat´s (Not Abroad) and Celeste the Dog go on holiday, so that they may worship me. If you do not let my people go, I will send swarms of humongous flying cockroaches on you and your officials, on your people and into your houses. The houses of the 
Kurds will be full of humongous flying cockroaches, and even the ground where they are."
And Pharaoh said unto Moses, "Get thee from me, take heed to thyself, see my face no more; get thee to Greece four weeks hence."And Moses said, "Thou hast spoken well, I will see thy face again no more but the Children of Canada shall get thee a t-shirt from the Hard Rock Café in Athens."
And the LORD did grin. (Exodus 7 and 3/4's, parts A - F)
To conclude...
Doyle version, Holmes not only solved the murder but recovered Silver Blaze. Interestingly, the prized racehorse was found at the neighbours. Hmmmm ... maybe I should pay a little visit to the Iranians. You just never know what might turn up 
