A Baghdad Bookseller, Bound to His Country

By Sudarsan Raghavan

Washington Post Foreign Service
Saturday, July 12, 2008; A01

BAGHDAD Upstairs, the blue bedroom door of Nabil al-Hayawi's only son was locked, sealing in the artifacts of his short life. Downstairs, the frail bookseller's voice quivered as he recalled the car bombing that killed his son and his brother and razed his family's bookshop on Baghdad's storied Mutanabi Street. More than a year later, Hayawi has not entered the bedroom.

He, too, almost died that day. After five operations, he has trouble standing up. His left arm hangs limp. He takes seven pills a day to cope with aches and depression. Shrapnel is still lodged in his body, posing new threats.

But decades of dictatorship, war and international sanctions, followed by five years of occupation, insurgency and sectarian strife, have not defeated the Hayawis. "If you live with fears, how can you live?" said Hayawi, 60, seated at his desk in his spacious, book-lined home on a recent sun-dappled day.

In the long anthology of Iraq's tragedies, the Hayawis represent the promise of the country's future. Despite their grief, they tenaciously refuse to surrender to the current turmoil. They belong to the fading but still influential group of middle-class Iraqis who are alarmed by their society's sectarian fissures and emerging Islamic identity and determined to preserve its cosmopolitan, secular nature.

In a country hobbled by a lack of basic services, high unemployment and scarce foreign investment, the family stands for a vibrant alternative. Violence has driven out more than 2 million people, draining Iraq of skilled professionals, but the rebuilt bookshop remains, an engine for fresh ideas and intellectual growth. Every day on Mutanabi Street, a Hayawi sells books, educating a new contingent of lawyers, doctors and computer programmers.

The Hayawis stay in Iraq out of nostalgia, nationalism and a sense of tradition, as well as economic necessity. When U.S. troops withdraw someday, Iraq will depend on families like theirs to rebuild itself, physically and psychologically.

"Iraq is my soul," the bald, silver-bearded Hayawi said. "I go and come back. But I will never leave."

Steward of Culture

In the soft morning light, the Muslim call to prayer rises from a mosque as old as Mutanabi Street itself. It floats across the warren of crumbling Ottoman-era buildings and dark alleys, past the green shutters of the Renaissance Bookshop.

Founded in 1957 by Abdul Rahman al-Hayawi, a mild-mannered Sunni Muslim with an appreciation for Arabic calligraphy, the Renaissance is the oldest bookshop on a street that has preserved a literary tradition through empire, colonialism and monarchy.

Most of the 1,246-year-old city of Baghdad was destroyed over the centuries, battered by nature and war, leaving its past glories known only to memory. Since the looting of the city's museums after the U.S.-led invasion in 2003, one of the few remaining stewards of the capital's culture and history is Mutanabi Street, named for a 10th-century poet whose verses Iraqis still quote from memory.

Every weekend, starting on Fridays, thousands of Baghdadis used to descend on Mutanabi Street to buy from booksellers of every sect and religion, fulfilling a popular Arab saying: "Cairo writes. Beirut publishes. Baghdad reads."

Here, Abdul Rahman imparted his love of books to his five sons and four daughters, bringing them to the street when they were infants.

"We opened our eyes in this bookstore," recalled Najah al-Hayawi, 62, the eldest brother.

So enchanted was Nabil that he attended law school at night rather than miss working at the bookstore. He became one of Iraq's youngest judges. After their father died in 1993, the brothers inherited the shop and later opened their own bookstores.

After the U.S.-led invasion, freedom coursed through Mutanabi Street. Booksellers openly displayed Shiite religious texts, extremist Sunni Wahhabi literature and Western magazines depicting scantily clad women. Once, that would have brought prison sentences. But Iraq's growing chaos spawned disillusionment. The government imposed a Friday curfew. Sales plummeted. Many booksellers fled Iraq.

The Hayawi family dispersed to Beirut, Damascus and Cairo. One brother, Dhafer, moved to Cairo after kidnappers targeted his son. But Nabil and his brothers kept their homes in Baghdad, traveling back and forth to manage the shop.

Mohammad, the youngest, never left. On a sweltering day in September 2006, the bearlike man politely apologized during an interview for the lack of electricity to power the air conditioner.

"When we go home after work, there's no guarantee we'll get home safely," he said. "And when we come to work in the morning, there's no guarantee we'll get here safely."

'Swimming in the Fire'

In Nabil al-Hayawi's house, in the capital's Mansour neighborhood, photos of Nabil's father at the Renaissance with his young children are displayed in a glass case. On a bookshelf are photos of Nabil's son, Yahye, and Mohammad, his brother. When Nabil recalled March 5, 2007, he broke into uncontrollable tears.

At 8:30 a.m. that day, Nabil and two workers were packing books to ship to the northern city of Irbil. Yahye, his 25-year-old-son, was working two doors down in the Legal Bookshop, started by Nabil's father.

A chemical engineer, Yahye had inherited his father's love of books, turning down a scholarship abroad so he could run the shop. The following week, he was to be engaged.

At 11:40 a.m., a car exploded in front of Nabil's shop.

"I thought that I was shot," he recalled. In the darkness, from under the rubble of the shop, he heard Mohammad calling: "People take us out! The fire is coming!"

Riddled with shrapnel, Nabil uttered the shehada, a prayer Muslims say before they die. He felt the heat, smelled the smoke. "I told myself, 'If God wants me to live, I must stand up,' " Nabil recalled. He slowly pushed aside chunks of concrete and toppled bookshelves.

Mohammad lay buried under books, rubble and car parts. His voice faint, he asked Nabil to get help. Through the haze, Nabil saw an opening.

He waded through the rubble, using a book in his right hand to bat back flames, his left hand to propel forward. "I was swimming in the fire," he said.

At the hospital, doctors pulled shrapnel from Nabil's brain, back and neck. They gave him six liters of blood and treated him for burns. He fell into a coma for three days. Nabil called out for his son and brother, relatives recalled. Then he called out the names of other booksellers he'd grown up with on the street, including Shiites and Christians.

With the death of his only son, Nabil's family line was severed. To help ease his pain, relatives told him that the two men had survived.

As he told the story, Nabil paused, and his hands shook. "I knew they were gone," he said.

A few days later, unable to find adequate medical care in Baghdad, his brothers carried him onto a plane for Beirut.

The family's collection of rare books, first editions and manuscripts burned with the store. They included two priceless books of Arabic calligraphy.

A Time to Rebuild

In Baghdad, scores of streets and markets have been bombed, sometimes repeatedly. Yet life springs up again quickly. Within a few hours, Iraqis fix windows, clean up streets, bury the dead.

Most don't have the means to leave Iraq. The Hayawis do. The brothers sold their family house in Baghdad for $330,000. But instead of living off the proceeds or investing outside Iraq, as many Iraqis have done, the Hayawis used the money to rebuild their two stores, repay debts and buy more books.

"It is our livelihood. It is our heritage. It is our history," Nabil's younger brother Bediyah al-Hayawi, 52, said matter-of-factly. "This is our country. How could we not be committed to it?"

Nabil was initially hesitant to rebuild Yahye's shop, fearing the memories. But while he was recovering from an operation, one of his two daughters, Zina, brought him Yahye's briefcase.

As he recounted this, Nabil stopped speaking, then reached under his desk and brought out the briefcase, pulling a sheaf of white papers from it. It was Yahye's will, written three months before the bombing.

In the will, his son asked him to keep the Legal Bookshop open. "It has been my dream since I was young," Nabil read, his voice cracking.

Five months after the bombing, Nabil returned to Baghdad. He locked Yahye's room, with the computer, the shelf of engineering books and the childhood portraits. The day he stepped into the Legal Bookshop, he collapsed.

Nabil remained on Mutanabi Street, overseeing reconstruction of the shops even as he struggled to rebuild himself. A month later, he left to undergo further surgery. "He is a believer," said Mohammed Taha, a family friend, as workmen on scaffolding repaired the wall above the thick Grecian columns outside.

'People Still Reading'

Inside the Renaissance today, photos of Mohammad, Yahye and Abdul Rahman, the patriarch, hang on a wall. Underneath them a sign reads, "The Martyrs of the Hayawi Family."

There are seven employees, overseen every day by a Hayawi, including Auws Najah al-Hayawi, Najah's 36-year-old son. A half-hour before the bombing, he had left the Renaissance to fetch books from a nearby warehouse. He came back to help rescue survivors. On a recent day, he chatted with customers in the store and by phone with a Beirut publisher, carrying the family tradition into the third generation.

Outside, Mutanabi Street was run-down, surrounded by concrete barriers and military checkpoints. Cars were banned, and nearby buildings were charred hulks.

Many writers, artists and professors have left Iraq. The Renaissance's best-selling titles now are Shiite religious books, Korans and English dictionaries, highlighting current priorities. Since the attack, business has halved.

But whenever Nabil is at the bookshop, he is thrilled to see customers, especially students, strolling down the street, undeterred by the threat of violence.

"I was happy that I discovered the people still reading," Nabil said.

Ahmed Khudair, 28, and his brother Mohammed, 24, browsed the shelves at the Renaissance on a recent Saturday morning. With the help of books they'd bought here, they had launched an in-house newspaper at the Environment Ministry, where Ahmed worked. Now they were considering creating a Web site.

"If we didn't have this kind of store in Baghdad, we wouldn't be able to advance," Ahmed said, clutching a computer book.

Under Saddam Hussein's regime, access to computers was limited, and the Internet was banned. The Renaissance has helped Imad Abdul Hamid, 41, catch up. He'd brought along an Arabic translation of Microsoft's Basic programming book. "This book has helped improve my skills. At my job, I work faster," said Hamid, who was now searching for an advanced programming guide. "Iraq needs to develop knowledge. This helps open the doors."

Beyond shelves filled with history, philosophy and translations of Mark Twain, Charles Dickens and Leo Tolstoy, another customer perused a book titled "Understanding Poetry."

"When I finish my masters, I'm going to get a PhD," said Mahmoud Khudr Juma, 34. "I am going to teach Arabic literature to serve my society. It is important to preserve our heritage."

He bought the poetry book. But it won't nourish just his mind. He anticipates lending it to at least a dozen classmates, who, in exchange, will lend him their books.

One Who Doesn't Bend

On a recent day, Nabil walked past the high, yellow stone wall of Cairo's renowned al-Azhar mosque and headed into the Turkish Alley district. With more than 100 bookstores and colorful billboards, the bustling enclave evoked Mutanabi Street in its glory.

"I feel joy because I love this world," Nabil said. "I also feel pain, for what has become of us and of Mutanabi Street, which was once a center for civilization."

He stopped at one store and ordered Islamic history books, Korans, cookbooks and computer guides to send to Baghdad. Then he walked to a shop named al-Aatik, meaning one who doesn't bend or retreat in the face of obstacles. It sold Iraqi works, including legal and medical textbooks and a popular history of Baghdad.

"It is as if I am shopping for my home, for my family," he said.

Later that night, as always, Nabil called Mohammad's son Ahmed, now 8, who is living in Damascus and still asks, "Where's my father?"

"I have started planting in his mind, with the help of his mother, that he loves books and bookstores," said Nabil, who has adopted Ahmed. "So he will carry on the history and glory of his father and his grandfather Hayawi."

Recently, a top Cairo surgeon told Nabil that a nerve could be transplanted from his leg to try to heal his left arm but that he might not walk again. And his throat, inflamed by shrapnel, could not be operated on until he was stronger.

An influential cleric in Beirut offered to help him gain asylum in Europe, with its state-of-the art medical treatment and majestic bookstores on elegant, peaceful boulevards.

Nabil refused.