experienced similar incidents in the past and here she was, a full doctor of pediatrics at one of the city’s best hospitals. It gave Leila some hope for herself.
“Something came across my desk two days ago,” said Dr. Dahbawi, rummaging through a drawer on her right-hand side. “I did not think of you at first, since you were settled in the pharmacy, but this might be the right thing. We must not let you stay in the pharmacy where further incidents might happen.”
“I agree,” said Leila.
“The best solution would be to get rid of Sayyid, but he is a man, and without cause for dismissal…Unless, of course, you want to file a formal complaint against him.”
“No,” Leila said. “No. I’d rather find a new position.”
“Good,” said Dr. Dahbawi. “It would tarnish your name, and for such a young career, you must avoid controversy.”
Leila nodded.
“Here is the job description,” said Dr. Dahbawi, finding the paper. “You’d be working directly with two experienced surgeons as an assistant. It’s a very prestigious position, with a great deal of hands-on experience. You would also serve as a translator between patient and surgeon.”
Leila listened with growing excitement. It sounded perfect for her, and she wanted nothing more than hands-on experience. But the last sentence confused her. “Translator? What do you mean?”
“Arabic to English,” said Dr. Dahbawi. “The surgeons are Americans. This job is based at the 67th Combat Support Hospital, on the military base. Camp Diamondback.”
Leila was astonished. She, Leila al-Ghani, work at the American base? Her father would never allow it. Tamir would sooner see her dead than working for the Americans. But it would be such an opportunity to work with American surgeons, the best in the world…. Leila’s ambition overruled her qualms about her family. “Tell me more,” she said.
“The position pays 150,000 dinars a week,” said Dr. Dahbawi, and Leila nearly choked. That was close to one hundred U.S. dollars per week. It was a fortune. Dr. Dahbawi continued with the details. “The hours are ten in the morning until six at night, and transportation will be provided. You’ll take the bus of workers that goes into and out of the base every day.”
“Will they even let me work there?” Leila asked. “I mean, my father was a Baathist. They must investigate those things.”
“They are desperate,” Dr. Dahbawi said. “No one is willing to work there anymore, not after the bombing of the mess hall two years ago, and the shootings. I can’t lie to you, Leila. If you take this position, you are putting yourself at risk. You know this.”
“Yes,” said Leila. “I know.” Her hands grasped her knees.
“But,” said Dr. Dahbawi, “you’d be doing a lot of good. They need a competent medical assistant who is fluent in Arabic and English, and especially one who can translate medical terms. Based on your English test scores, you qualify.”
Leila smiled. But there was still one giant hurdle, and she was determined not to let it get in her way. “My father,” Leila said. “He will not approve. If he knows I am working with the Americans, he’ll…” She paused. “He might just kick me out of the house. So please, will you object if I tell my family I am still working at the pharmacy?”
Dr. Dahbawi paused. “That is deception….”
“Yes, but it’s necessary,” Leila said. She leaned forward. “I can do a lot of good with this position. I can help. And I’ll learn a lot. My father…” She hesitated again, searching for the proper words. “He lacks tolerance, and I don’t want that to affect me.”
Leila held her breath as Dr. Dahbawi nodded. “It will be up to you what you tell your family,” she finally said. “It is not the business of the Al-Razi Hospital.”
“Yes,” said Leila. Then she smiled. “The Hippocratic oath, right? First do no harm.”
“That’s correct,” said Dr. Dahbawi. “I’ll pass along the word that you’ve agreed to work for the Americans. Come back tomorrow at this time, and the bus will take you into the military base. You already have your hospital security clearance, but the Americans will do another background check and issue you their own pass.” She paused, twirling the wedding ring on her finger. “Leila, you do know why they’re looking for a new translator, right?”
Leila did not think she wanted to hear this. But she shook her head. “No.”
“The previous one was kidnapped by the mujahideen. His tongue was cut out. I can’t let you take this job without telling you.”
Leila gulped. Perhaps as the daughter of a Baathist she might be protected from the mujahideen. It was a useless comfort, she knew, but Leila let herself believe it. “I still want the job,” she said, sounding more confident than she felt.
“Very well,” said Dr. Dahbawi. “I will tell Dr. Musrahi and your change of position will not be held against you.”
“Thank you, Dr. Dahbawi,” said Leila. She stood and with a startled glance at the clock, saw it was nine-thirty already.
“Take the day off, be back tomorrow,” Dr. Dahbawi said. She looked at Leila with concern and a faint tinge of respect. “You’ll do the name of Iraqi women proud, my dear.”
As she walked out of Al-Razi Hospital into the morning’s cool sunshine, Leila felt tossed about like a boat in a storm. She had taken a job with the Americans. It was the most dangerous thing she could do, and Leila was exhilarated and terrified and helpless all at once. It was inshallah, the will of God, the wheel of the Fates, spinning round and round, depositing her somewhere unexpected.
She recalled one of Fatima’s acquaintances, a Christian girl called Tara. She had worked at the American operations base, Camp Marez, as a cleaner, since her family needed the extra income. Tara shared a car pool with several other girls, and one day as they returned along the airport road from their work at the base, they were attacked by a group of angry jihadis. All four girls were killed, shot to death in the name of some murky religious ideal. It made sense to no one. A girl in her prime, dead, all because of a job. Leila knew it was reckless faith to believe herself exempt from the violence sweeping her city…yet what choice did she have? To languish in poverty, to slide down inch by inch until her education was forgotten? No, if she wanted to make her way in a dangerous world, she needed to be in the dangerous world. Inshallah to the rest.
She spent the remainder of the day at home. There was no electricity and Leila was, for once, not disappointed because of it; she was in the perfect mood to sit in the women’s sitting room with the windows open and the small breeze lifting through the window to chill her. It was an overstuffed space full of knickknacks, cushions, Western-style furniture from Naji’s shop, and a glass cabinet stacked with special teacups. Leila had always thought the color scheme of gold, pink, and green garish next to the deep jewel tones of the main sitting room.
She finished her second Robin Cook novel of the month. Umm Naji sat opposite, doing a pile of mending, and Fatima worked on her embroidery skills, to the occasional exclamation of a needle-pricked finger. Leila let her hair down, playing with the long, wavy strands, enjoying the freedom of it.
Cousin Abdul had left that morning with little Mohammed, and to Leila’s great relief there had been no mention of a betrothal. Umm Naji was happy because Abdul raved about the al-Ghani hospitality, and Leila and Fatima were happy to have the houseguest gone.
“I found some material for new scarves,” said Fatima.
“Where?” asked Umm Naji.
“It was on sale at the market. See, dark blue, and this patterned tan and pink.” Fatima pulled the fabric from her plaid plastic shopping bag and it made a whispering noise as she moved it between her hands. “I thought of the pink for Leila.”
“I do like it,” Leila admitted. Sometimes