Eid al-Adha Truce 1981

I was working in Baghdad, al-Mutanabbi Street, selling books on a humble wooden stall. Those were bitter years, harsh days---;--- we were living under a crushing economic embargo that strangled the country throughout the 1990s. In that time of scarcity, I longed for something simple yet essential: a desk on which I can write---;--- a surface where words could finally rest.

One afternoon, I wandered to al-Midan Square, specifically to the “Haraj” market. By sheer chance, I came upon an old office desk in a scrap dealer’s shop. The dealer claimed it dated back to the 1970s, crafted from teak wood. I had wanted a desk for years, but nothing had ever fit my meager budget. This one was battered—one leg crudely repaired, one side scorched and blackened by fire and soot —yet it was inexpensive. I convinced myself I could ---restore--- it. It felt like a gamble, but also like my final opportunity. I paid the man and carried it back to my room. I cleaned it, wiped away the dust, and tried to pull out its drawers. The outer wooden veneer was completely decayed---;--- fire and water had clearly ravaged it. The last drawer was stubbornly stuck. I tried gently at first, then finally struck it hard with the side of my fist. It burst open, revealing a shallow hidden space beneath. Inside, I found a small black metal box. On its lid was a piece of paper, written in a trembling hand: “My son Kareem’s final letter. It arrived on October 15, 1981. It shall be buried with me when my time comes.”
I knew even as I touched the box, that opening it was a violation. But curiosity—my oldest flaw—overpowered my conscience. Inside lay an envelope addressed to:

Baghdad – Ubaidi Area
Dist. 750, Str. 11, House# 1
Opposite Al-Mustafa Mosque
To Hajjah Salama, ‘Um Kareem’ (mother of Mr. Kareem).

The letter inside was written in pencil, dated October 10, 1981. Let me read it to you:

“My dearest mother,
I write to you in a calmer state of mind, for something extraordinary has just occurred—something I must share with you. At dawn on the first day of “Eid al-Adha”, we were all inside our trenches. The air was fresh and cool. It was the most beautiful morning I have ever seen, warm and gentle, just as October mornings should be.
I wish I could tell you that we initiated what happened, but the truth is otherwise. It was the Iranian soldiers who did. One of our men spotted a white flag fluttering above the opposing trenches. Then voices carried across the no-man’s land: “Eid Mubarak to you, Iraqis! Happy Eid!”
Once we grasped the surprise, some of us shouted back: ‘And to you as well, Iranians!’ We thought it would end there. We all did. However, suddenly, one of them appeared, wearing a khaki coat and waving a white flag. Someone shouted, ‘Don’t shoot, men!’ And no one fired. Another Iranian soldier emerged, then another one, until several stood visible on their embankments.
I warned my men, ‘Keep your heads down—it could be a trick.’ But it wasn’t.
One of them raised a bag above his head, shouting: ‘It’s Eid al-Adha, Iraqis! We have dates, Iranian Sohan, pastries, and juice. Shall we meet?’
Then, dozens of them began walking toward us through the forbidden land—unarmed. The private Hassan was the first to stand up. ‘Come on, men,’ he said. ‘What are we waiting for?’
I was the commanding officer. I should have stopped them immediately. Yet, despite the danger to my life and my men, the thought never crossed my mind. Along our line and theirs, I saw men moving slowly toward one another. Without realizing it, I became one of them. Yes, mom—I was part of that strange, impossible scene.
In the midst of war, we were making peace, mom.
You cannot imagine what I felt as I looked into the eyes of the Iranian officer who approached me, extending his hand and gripping mine warmly. “My name is Ali Sadeqian,” he said. “I’m from Tehran. I love reading and writing poetry. Eid Mubarak.”
I replied, ‘I am captain Kareem Mahdi Atta. From Baghdad. Happy Eid to you as well.’
He smiled. “Ah, Baghdad. I know it well.”
We shared dates, sohan, and Iraqi kleicha "Traditional Iraqi cookies” stuffed with walnut and Turkish delight. We talked like friends. He spoke Arabic with a Persian accent, and admitted he had never been to Baghdad---;--- everything he knew came from schoolbooks and One Thousand and One Nights tales. His favorite writer was Erich Maria Remarque, and his favorite novel was “All Quiet on the Western Front”.
There, in that desolate and remote wasteland, we spoke of the novel, its characters, and the lesson its author wished to leave behind.
He told me he had a wife and a baby boy, born only months earlier. He carried their photograph in his pocket. Around us, Iraqi and Iranian soldiers mingled everywhere — smoking, laughing, eating, drinking. Ali and I shared the last of the kleicha and Sohan. He insisted that Iraqi kleicha, especially the kind filled with Turkish delight, was the finest sweet he had ever tasted. I agreed with him, and told him it was made by my mom. I had never witnessed an Eid celebration like this.
Someone brought out a football. Our military uniforms were piled up to form goalposts, and suddenly we were watching a match—Iraq versus Iran—played in the heart of the buffer zone. Ali and I cheered, clapped, stamped our feet whenever a goal slipped away. At one moment, I noticed our breaths mingling in the air. He noticed too and smiled.
‘Captain Kareem,’ he said, ‘I think this is how wars should be settled—with a football match. No one dies. No children are orphaned. No women are widowed.’
‘Indeed,’ I replied.
We laughed and watched together.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. The match ended. The food ran out. We knew the moment had passed. I wished my Iranian friend well, saying, “I hope you see your family soon, and that this war ends so we may all return home.”
“That is every soldier’s wish,” he replied. “On both sides. Take care, Kareem. I will never forget this moment—or you.”
He saluted and walked away slowly. He turned once more to wave, then disappeared among hundreds of men returning to their trenches.
That night, from across the lines, we heard them chanting Sufi prayers—haunting, beautiful hymns. Our men responded with Eid takbirs and morning supplications. For a while, prayers crossed the darkness. Then silence fell.
We were granted moments of harmony and peace—moments I will cherish for as long as I live.
My beloved mother, by next Eid this war will be nothing more than a distant, painful memory. What happened today has shown me how deeply both armies yearn for peace. You and I shall meet again soon, dearest of all people—I am certain of it. Until then, prepare kleicha stuffed with Turkish delight for me.

Your son,
Kareem

The letter is ended. I folded the letter carefully and returned it to its envelope. I told no one of what I had found, ashamed of my curiosity. Guilt kept me awake all night.

By morning, I feigned an excuse, skipped work, and drove to al-Ubaidi area, following the address on the envelope. I asked a boy about the location of al-Mustafa Mosque and the house. It turned that the house was now nothing but a burned-out shell—roof open to the sky, windows boarded up, and debris and rubbish piled inside.
I knocked on the door of the neighboring house and asked if anyone knew where Mrs. Salama, mother of Kareem, was. An old man answered, "Yes, I know her well. She was a strong woman, but now she s an old woman, her mind clouded. She endured the hardships of life alone and witnessed many misfortunes and trials. She was in the house when it caught fire. No one knows how the fire started, but it s likely that her failing eyesight and mental instability contributed to it. A firefighter saved her at the last minute." After that, the old man told me that she is now a resident of the nursing house in Al-Rashad area.

I could find this house easily. I entered. The hallways were decorated with paper ornaments, drawings and balloons. The receptionist greeted me, asking about the reason for my visit. I told him I had come to visit Mrs. Salama to give her a gift. Through the window, I could see the dining room where everyone was sitting, smiling, and whispering. I went to the house ---dir---ector and briefly explained why I had come. He seemed pleased to see me. He walked me down the corridor and said, "Mrs. Salama isn t with the others---;--- she s a bit disoriented, so we thought it would be better if she rested today. As you know, she has no family left, no one visits her, and I m sure she ll be delighted to see you." He then led me to a room with chairs and potted plants and left me there. The old woman was sitting in a wheelchair, her hands folded in her lap. She wore a white shawl, and strands of her silver hair fell over her forehead, which was etched with the wrinkles of time. She was gazing out into the garden.
“Hello,” I said gently.
She turned and looked at me absently.
“I found something that belongs to you”, I continued, “Mrs. Salama, I found something that belongs to you." As I spoke, her eyes never left mine. I opened the metal box and handed it to her. At that moment, her eyes lit up at the sight of it, and her face suddenly glowed with happiness. I explained about the table and how I found it, but she didn t listen. She didn t say a word, instead, she simply caressed the letter with her fingertips. Then grasped my hand. Tears welled in her eyes.
“You said you would come home by Eid, my son Kareem,” she whispered. “And here you are. Your presence is the greatest gift. Come closer—sit beside me.”
I sat beside her, and she kissed my cheek. "I used to read your letter so often, my son, every day," she continued. "I longed to hear the words in your voice. I always felt your presence with me. And now you re here, you ve returned, you can read it to me yourself. Kareem, my son, will you do this for me? I just want to hear your voice again. I d be so happy. And then we ll have tea. Oh, I remembered, I made you some kleicha stuffed with Turkish delight. I know how much you love it, my son."

Words failed me. I couldn t utter a single word to describe what was happening before me. My tears spoke instead, revealing my fragile truth of my body and betrayal of my feelings.


(Inspired by the Christmas Truce of 1914)

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